‘What the hell would he be doing there?’
‘He was in uniform. In a bar.’
Stojic thought back to the file he had been shown but not allowed to copy.
‘He did his national military service. All young Yugoslavs have to do that. Aged eighteen through twenty-one.’
‘Combat soldier?’
‘No. Signals Corps. Radio operator.’
‘Never saw combat. Might have wished he had. Might have joined a group going into Bosnia to fight for the Serbian cause. A deluded volunteer? Possible?’
Stojic shrugged.
‘Possible. But these paramilitaries are scumbags. Gangsters all. What would this law student be doing with them?’
‘Summer vacation?’ said the Tracker.
; ‘But which group? Shall we ask him?’
Stojic consulted his piece of paper.
‘Address in Senjak, not half an hour away.’
‘Then let’s go.’
They found the address without trouble, a solid, middle-class villa on Istarska Street. Years serving Marshal Tito and now Slobodan Milosevic had done Mr Rajak senior no harm at all. A pale and nervous-looking woman probably in her forties but looking older answered the door.
There was an interchange in Serbo-Croat.
‘Milan’s mother,’ said Stojic. ‘Yes, he’s in. What do you want, she asks.’
‘To talk to him. An interview. For the British Press.’
Clearly bewildered, Mrs Rajak let them in and called to her son. Then she showed them into the sitting room. There were feet on the stairs and a young man appeared in the hall. He had a whispered conversation with his mother and came in. His air was perplexed, worried, almost fearful. The Tracker gave him his friendliest smile and shook hands. The door was still an inch open. Mrs Rajak was on the phone speaking rapidly. Stojic shot the Englishman a warning glance, as if to say, ‘Whatever you want, keep it short. The artillery is on its way.’
The Englishman held out a notepad from a bar in the north. The two remaining sheets on it were headed Hotel Bosna. He flicked the cardboard over and showed Milan Rajak the seven numbers and two initials.
‘It was very decent of you to settle the bill, Milan. The barman was grateful. Unfortunately the cheque bounced.’
‘No. Not possible. It was cl—’
He stopped and went white as a sheet.
‘No one is blaming you for anything, Milan. So just tell me: what were you doing in Banja Luka?’
‘Visiting.’
‘Friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘In camouflage? Milan, it’s a war zone. What happened that day two months ago?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Mama . . .’ Then he broke into Serbo-Croat and the Tracker lost him. He raised an eyebrow at Stojic.